


One of Us

by ObsidianMichi



Series: Dirty Dalish Celebrations [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dirty Dancing, F/M, Fluff, Mild Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2015-01-23
Packaged: 2018-03-08 19:03:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3219974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObsidianMichi/pseuds/ObsidianMichi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eirwen Lavellan dances at a Dalish celebration as Solas looks on. When the Clan Keeper mentions an interesting detail about her dance partner, he discovers he doesn’t know quite as much about her past as he thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One of Us

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** I don’t own anything in this fic, not even the slight alterations and additions I made to the lore. Not even my Lavellan. I just put words in a row.

Solas inhaled.

Eirwen kicked up her heels, advancing with each swaying quiver of her hips. Her scarf held high above her head, toes pointed directly toward the elven Hunter. Nenar stepped back, drawing her further into the crowd of swaying couples. She wheeled, dropping her scarf low to trail across her nose and mouth. A drifting piece of cloth below coquettish, fluttering lashes. Her knees bent and she lowered, her stomach rolling with each shift. It moved in time with her hips. One turn to Solas and their company. A step to the left to the cheering hunters. A step to the right to whooping craftsmen.

Nenar was behind her, his fingers trailing up the outside of her hips.

Eirwen flipped the scarf over, slipping over his black hair to wrap behind his head. She drew him forward, her hips rhythm never breaking their rolling shift. Until Nenar’s lips nearly brushed the tip of her ear, his hands sliding down the curve of her abdomen to possessively grip her waist.

“Holy…” Blackwall whispered.

_It is as good a word as any,_ Solas thought.

“Exquisite,” Keeper Paivel murmured.

Tearing his gaze from the dancers, Solas studied the Keeper. _There is greed there. He wants her, but not as a bedmate._ His eyes returned to the dancers. _What does he hope to gain from this exercise?_

Eirwen twisted her scarf as the drums pounded, pipes exhaling a loose melody. It fluttered against Nenar’s cheek as a single step carried her beyond his grasp.

Her fingers twined the scarf, spinning it over her head to wrap loosely around her throat. Her twirling steps pausing with each beat to flick her hips from one side to the other. Shoulders followed, then her head, arms spreading wide as each body part took on a life of its own.

The other women encircled her.

Solas recognized the hunters Shara and Iona, and Nesiall, Paivel’s First. He remembered Nesiall’s mockery when they entered the camp, her muttering of seth’lin toward both him and Sera when she thought Eirwen could not hear her. Eirwen’s tense and harsh reply in elvish. He had barely caught it, yet the other woman had turned bright red and then her already pasty complexion drained into a pale white beneath a dusting of freckles.

The First slid next to Eirwen and they began to move in tandem. Bodies shifting back and forth, their spines rolling like snakes as they advanced toward the men.

Nenar joined his group. His brown eyes fixed on Eirwen. A smile pulled at his mouth.

_There is no question now,_ Solas thought. _She is one of them._

Reaching out, he felt his fingers close around a jacket’s cuff. Eirwen’s. Discarded with her boots and her shirt as she strode to join the dance. He could not look away, pride would not allow it.

All around them, those watching began to hum.

Together, the men lifted their hands. They began to clap.

The women kicked their right legs out. A swift hopping step. Together, they spun. Stopping mid-turn, their hips quivering to the beat of the drum. Fingertips trailed up the curves of their waists. Their buttocks shook. Solas could see every pulse in their shifting spines. Arms crossed across their chests, heads turned, eyes lifted seductively to meet the eyes of their chosen partner.

Eirwen’s sky blue gaze did not go to Nenar, nor did the slight inviting smile curving her lips.

Solas felt his heart began to pound, an answering smile tugging at his own mouth.

Nesiall swirled. Arms high above her head, quick steps twirling around the campfire. One of the men moved to meet her, though Solas could not remember his name.

_The dance of the courtesan,_ Solas thought. _A dance meant to arouse and pleasure…_

“What do you think of the dance, Sera?” he asked.

“They’re too elfy, right? Bit boring?” Sera muttered. “Nothing happenin’ here that couldn’t be in some backwater brothel at Denerim’s ass end.”

“You say that,” Blackwall murmured. “I’ve been in those brothels, the Dalish there didn’t dance like this.”

To their left, Keeper Paival hissed.

Then, the music slowed and Shara stepped forward. Her arms fluttered in the firelight, slow and steady. Arms rising above her head, shadows exposing the full length of her sinuous form. Wrists crossed and drifted lower, drawing her fingertips down the center of her chest between her breasts to her belly. Her hips rocking gently from side to side, her head turned from her partner. The pipes and the flute rose, drums melody drifting off. The gentle hum of the onlookers lulling.

Behind her, the remaining women imitated her dance. Nesiall and her partner spinning away to the other side of the fire, their fingers exploring each other’s bodies as they moved.

The drums began to pound.

Shara’s hands drew up her center, rotating underneath her breasts. Her feet stepped together. Her spine arced, breasts thrust forward. Her hands spread, pulling wide to show the full breadth of her body. She stepped forward, waist rocking, arms pulling to her right across her abdomen. Low, then back, her feet together, arms lifting to the night sky. Her exposed belly began to undulate. Her arms spread, fingers tilted toward the ground.

She spun.

Clap went the audience.

Her arms rose high again, index fingers touching. Her head turned away from the crowd. Left ankle crossed behind her right. Her stomach rippled, yet the rest remained perfectly still.

Innocent, the first suspicion of sexuality, the arousal of a new adult.

Clap. Clap.

Again, she spun.

Her hands twisted overhead and she faced the crowd, eyes on the overhead moon.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

Her hips began to rock, to shiver and shake. Her core undulating. Her arms widening, dropping. Shoulders twisting to the music’s beat. One and then the other, rippling in time with her abdomen.

“Woof,” Sera whispered.

“A beautiful lady,” Blackwall murmured.

“Shara celebrates her adulthood,” Paivel replied. “In the traditional manner.”

_Yes,_ Solas thought. _Tonight is the first night she may be sought out as a partner._ He recognized this dance. _Vir’dalath. The Way of Young Love._ First, had come the dance of the courtesan. The dance of seduction. Now, the dance of love. In Arlathan, this had been the dance of the maiden, when a slave displayed her body to her master or a woman to her lover. A dance meant to entice but in which the man could not touch. Different from the wilder dance of sexuality, the Halla and the Wolf.

His eyes returned to Eirwen. Together, she and Iona swung, their wrists crossed over their heads. They rotated back, their hips shifting, their hands circling. Their bodies bent. Each patiently waiting their turn.

Behind them, the crowd of elves around the bonfire stamped and clapped.

It was easy to see Eirwen’s skill. She was, even amongst her own people. A skill earned, he knew, by hours of practice within her bedroom at Skyhold. Training performed only to the memory of music, to free her mind from the regular hustle of Inquisition business. Nesiall, Shara, and even the older Iona lacked her careful control, her easy timing, and her fluidity of motion.

_She once danced this dance,_ Solas realized. _Once as Shara now does._ When Eirwen celebrated her adulthood, when she indicated her sexual availability to her Clan, she must have danced the Vir’dalath. Yet, he found he could barely imagine it. She was so old for one so young, even at her most reckless. She displayed an interest and knowledge in the world, a compassion for others that drew on her own past experiences. The idea of her lashes fluttering, a first blush on her pale skin, followed by tentative dance steps before her elders in true innocence felt odd. For all her youthful appearance, Eirwen’s lack of innocence, lack of hesitation, her teasing certainty, her general mischievous confidence, and even her sureness in the way she took him in her hands was startling. She knew who she was, knew what she wanted, and knew what she would do in order to take it for herself.

_She could not have always been as she is now._ How old had she been when she first danced the Vir’dalath? Shara’s seventeen? Younger? Older? _I never thought to ask._ She never mentioned previous sexual partners, but then neither had he. He had not cared to know. In her twenty two years, it could have been many. It could have been none. _Vhenan._

Shara dropped before Paival, kneeling low. Her hands spread wide in a gesture of submission.

The Keeper lifted his hands.

She drew her hands up her cheeks, over her head, stood with a spin to face her partner. Another elf Solas did not recognize. Lifting a single finger, she pointed.

The woman smiled.

_A sign that she is the one Shara wants,_ Solas thought. As always, it amazed him how easy and free the Dalish could be when they were not faced with the prospect of outsiders. When they were comfortable with their own. _We are only welcomed out of respect to the Inquisitor._ And for their work in reclaiming Dalish history. _Sera and I are still flat-ears, seth’lin, barely more than shemlen. Worse, in some ways for we abandon our “heritage”._ The derision in their eyes, the laughter they hid behind their hands. _Their pride in their slave markings and their misremembered history._ In their eyes, he might as well be human. _Sera practically is._

He remembered the brush of Eirwen’s lips on his cheek, her warmth as she rested her forehead against his temple. His fingers tangled up with hers. Clan Savraen’s Keeper’s eyes narrowing when he saw. _Please, don’t fight,_ Eirwen whispered in his ear. _Just for now, for me._

As Shara’s partner drew her away and Iona swept forward, Solas glanced at Paival. _Yes,_ his fingers balled on his thigh. _A Dalish with a flat ear, elvhen’alas._ His knuckles digging into his leg, he ground his teeth. Of course, the Keeper disapproved. His eyes swung to Nenar. The younger man’s hungry gaze remained locked on Eirwen’s sinuous movements, her arms, wandering down her breasts to rivulets of sweat slicking her skin. Solas’ jaw clenched. _Yes,_ he thought. _Among the Dalish, Nenar would be a proper mate._ His eyes dropped to his fist and the jacket he still held in his lap. _He seeks to say I have no place here. We have no future._ He almost laughed. _Ma serannas, old one, but I do not require a reminder._

Iona swirled forward to cheers.

_Ah, a popular dancer,_ Solas thought.

A grin lit her mouth. She was older, a beautiful woman in her late thirties with dusky skin. Her bright gold hair streaked with gray. Her style was rougher. Her younger partner sprang to her side with long, even strides. He turned her, spinning her out. Their hips rocking in time together. Iona reached for the sky. Each step shifting between her heel and her ball. Then she held her arm to the right.

She stepped left, then right. Her arms tucking to her sides, hands turned in the direction of her motion.

The tempo of the drums quickened.

Behind her, Eirwen twirled, stamping and clapping.

The young man whispered something in Iona’s ear and she laughed. The possessive way he gripped her hips, the closeness as they ground together suggested a familiarity that went beyond friendship. Iona splayed her legs, dropping low, her buttocks shaking.

The crowd laughed.

“Iona! Iona! Iona!”

Iona straightened, her partner lifting her. His fingers drifted up her hips, then slid over her abdomen, and down into the crevice between her legs. Then, one hand cupped and tightened. The other moved up her undulating stomach, sliding up to her breasts as he pulled her tighter against him.

Her head jerked right then left, eyes locking on the Keeper. Her arms lifted, hands wrapping around her partner’s head. Nails digging into his brown hair. Her hips began to twitch, rocking faster, and faster.

His swayed and, together, they moved in time. The man’s lips moved, murmuring in her ear.

Iona’s smile widened.

“Andraste’s flaming ass,” Blackwall muttered.

“But!” Sera gasped. “Dalish are prudes!”

“Only among outsiders it would seem,” Solas said.

“Your friend is right,” Keeper Paival said. “Few shemlen have ever witnessed our ceremonies. Without Inquisitor Lavellan, we would not have invited you to share our celebration.”

Solas stiffened. His eyes returned to Eirwen.

“Well, la-dee-da,” Sera grumbled. “Lucky us.”

Did Paival intend to set a similar dance for her and Nenar? He did not know Dalish customs well enough to guess. _Before, their intricacies did not seem to matter._ Now… he glanced at Eirwen.

A small smile played on her lips. She drifted back and forth, stamping with her left foot to the rhythm of the drum. The scarf unwrapped from her neck, draped over her head between two raised arms.

On his side, Nenar mirrored her position. Clapping and stamping with his right as he watched the two in the circle.

“Funny to think those two were…” Sera trailed off. “What did Inquisitor call it? Promised?”

Solas froze. “Excuse me?”

“What? Didn’t tell you?” He didn’t miss the smug glance Sera shot him. “Oh! I knew somethin’ you don’t? Funny!”

“Her father, Garwen was a hunter from our Clan,” Paival said. “He and Nenar’s father, Havin were closer than brothers before he met Valyra Lavellan at the Arlathvhen. They hoped one day their children might be joined beneath the branches of the Vhenadahl.”

Behind Iona and her partner, Eirwen and Nenar approached each other. Slowly, they moved, carefully, with matching steps. Their eyes locked.

_It is the dance,_ Solas reminded himself. _It is the same as the victory at Adamant when she and Loranil performed the Hall and the Wolf._ Yet, he could not ignore the twisting in his gut. _Reminded, again, she belongs to a world I cannot enter._ The Dalish were not his people.

Nenar passed a hand down Eirwen’s forehead, skin skimming her nose, lips, and chin.

A small smile tugged her lips, beads of sweat slipping down her cheek. Sky blue irises shone in the firelight. A damp orange bang slid free from behind her ear, falling across her brow. Her head tilted. One foot trailing on the dirt, she straightened and stood tall. Light caught on the indentation of her breasts, shadowing her, shimmering on droplets sliding into her cleavage.

They stood together before the fire, in the same place and from the same time.

“Heh,” Blackwall said. “They do look like they belong together, don’t they?”

_Yes,_ Solas thought.

“They met at the Arlathvhen nearly three years ago, Keeper Istimaethoriel and I hoped…” Paival trailed off. “Well, despite the distance, our Clans have ever been close.”

Spinning her out with a push of his hand, Iona’s partner twirled her, lifted her, and tossed her over his shoulder. The crowd laughed and clapped. He whirled, offering a low bow to the Keeper. Iona kicked and pounded on his back, giggling. Then, he raced off around the bonfire after the other couples.

Solas nearly closed his eyes.

To his left, Blackwall clapped. “Were you intending to have her to take over?”

Paival glanced in the big human’s direction. “We have… had trouble with the Templars in the past.”

“And you have difficulty holding onto your mages!” Solas nearly leapt to his feet, but he held himself still. His nails dug into his palms. _Were they planning a trade?_ Had Clan Lavellan’s Keeper planned to sell her protégé? An arrangement was no better than that! The idea this Keeper would want her merely because of her magic…

“Nesiall has proved sufficient,” Paival replied.

_But,_ Solas finished the Keeper’s thought, _she is not the Inquisitor._ He knew too well the lure of maybes and might have beens, the feeling of hopes dashed against the rocks. The more Eirwen adapted to her role as Inquisitor, the more magnificent she became. Now, the place of a Keeper in a Dalish Clan would be too small. The role as it might have been no longer fit. Yet Solas could see the Keeper’s mind working as he watched her, embroiled in anger, envy, and a sense of loss. _She might have been ours, but she was stolen. Stolen from us by the shemlen._ Another fallen sister. Lost to the enemy, the humans and their Cities.

He might have laughed.

_Were I not also sharing this boat, I might._ Solas returned his gaze to the dancers, to the Inquisitor. His Inquisitor. _I never imagined the Dalish and I would ever share a commonality, find a recognizable loss to connect us._

In the center of the circle, Eirwen stepped past Nenar. Each of her steps were careful, sweet, lightly fluttering her arms. She twisted to the left, then to the right. Her hands went high, palms met and rotated in tight semi-circles. One step forward, her hips beginning to rock and shift. Eyes dropped to the ground, head turned away, lashes fluttering.

Nenar moved in behind her, his body swaying to the beat. Slowly, he lifted his arms, hands reaching out to take her waist.

A single step carried her away. She spun. Facing, Nenar, she backed up. One, step, two step, three. Drawing her fingertips up her cheeks, she met his gaze. Then, she flung her hands down.

Eirwen turned away, showing him her back, arms crossed over her chest.

The drums silenced. The pipes wavering as they slowed. The lute plucked at odd intervals.

In the crowd, someone laughed.

Solas frowned.

Beside him, Paival hissed.

“I take it that’s a no,” Blackwall murmured.

“What?” Sera asked. “What happened?”

_She finds him unsatisfactory?_ Solas wondered. If she did, then…

“It is her right,” Paival replied.

“So, what happens now?” Blackwall asked.

“She may dance alone,” Paival replied. “Or, she may now choose a new partner.” He paused. “If that is her wish.”

His hand flattened on his knee. Had someone else caught her eye? Did she find someone else more suitable? Who would she risk angering this Clan for? Who was worth threatening this fragile new relationship?

Nenar turned away and stalked away.

The song of the pipe began to flutter.

Slowly, Eirwen lifted an arm. Fingertips extended, her arm rolling down her shoulder. The other rose, reaching out. Together, they climbed toward the sky in a sinuous motion. Each distinct and separate, in a disjointed but relaxing rhythm. Eirwen bent back, her head tilted. Short, damp hair fell free, draping against her neck. She swung sideways. Her shoulders undulating slowly, one hand sweeping across her waist.

She paused.

Then, her head snapped up and the first thunder of the drums rose behind crackling flames.

_What are you doing, Eirwen?_

Those sky blue eyes locked on his. A small smile twitched at the edges of lips.

One arm lifted and with it, a single finger.

She was pointing.

“Think she’s chosen,” Blackwall said.

_Paival?_ Solas blinked. It couldn’t be _him._

Eirwen’s head tilted, a tiny frown furrowing on her brow. Her hand turned over and her finger twitched.

“Well, Solas,” Solas felt Blackwall’s hand close on the back of his jacket, “don’t leave the lady waiting.” And thrust him forward.

He stumbled into the center of the circle.

Behind him, someone giggled.

Slowly, Solas straightened.

Eirwen approached him with a smile. Her scarf reappeared in her hands and she flipped it out, wrapping it about his neck, drawing him close.

Slowly, he took her into his arms. Thumb brushing underneath the hem of her bra, his eyes on her lips. Her skin warmed his palms as his hands slid down to her waist and came to rest on her hips.

“Why, vhenan?”

“Solas,” Eirwen smiled. Her arms wrapped around his neck. “Who else could there be?”

He laughed.

“Can you dance?” She leaned in close. Her hips shifting from side to side, rocking against him. “You know so much, sa’lath. Do you know the steps?”

He mirrored her movements, hands sliding around her slippery back. “Are you challenging me, my heart?”

She rose on her toes, breasts pressing against his chest. A grin yanked across her mouth, her chin tilted up. Nails bit into the back of his scalp. “What do you think?”

He grinned, “I suppose I must rise to the occasion.”

The scarf fluttered to the ground.

Eirwen’s nose bumped against the tip of his own. “Show me.”

Solas gripped her waist, his free hand cupping her cheek. His thumb slid down her cheek, sweeping drops of sweat from parted red lips. The warmth of her skin burned against him. She bent back, her hips pressing against his groin as she rotated. Lifting her chin, she arced to expose the curve of her body. His fingers slid down her neck, brushing across her clavicle and dragged them down her exposed chest. He leaned forward, her head tilting backwards. He exhaled across her skin, pressing a kiss to the base of her throat.

Eirwen gasped.

He smiled.

Behind them, the crowd whooped.

Slowly, Solas drew her back to him. Watching her shining eyes lock on his, felt the thrill racing in in his stomach, as her tongue swiped across her upper lip.

Their hands clasped.

His slid off her waist, fingertips digging into her spine.

Eirwen leaned in with a grin. Her hips undulating slowly as she rocked. Step back, feet crossed on a forty five, step forward, and step back. One, two, three. A variation on the one of the Orlesian dances she’d memorized for Halamshiral. She moved at a quicker tempo, keeping time with the beat of drum and pipe.

He mirrored her steps, his hand gliding up her back.

She held his gaze, her sky blue irises glittering in the firelight. In this moment, her eyes said, there was only room for him.

Solas felt his stomach flutter.

With a gentle touch of his hand, she spun out. A graceful flick of hers sending sweat flying toward the fire. Her entire body stretched, one long arm and leg extended, her back arched. A perfect profile, shadowed only by the dancing flames of the bonfire.

A yank of his hand brought her back, a two-step twirl into his arms. His hands slid down her waist. Hers rose, flicking over the tips of her breasts, to wrap around the back of his head and together they began to grind.

She drew him down, their hips rolling together in time.

His lips brushed along the inside of her ear. “Are you pleased, emma lath?”

He felt her shiver. “Not yet,” she murmured. “I believe you’ll have to work harder, vhenan.”

Solas nipped her ear, chuckling. “I shall try,” he replied. “In my own small way—”

Playfully, she thrust against him. Her buttocks rotated against his groin.

He groaned and dropped lower, hands slipping down the outside curve of her hips to her thighs. He ran his thumbs along the inside groove of her pants, his mouth dragging down the back of her neck. With him, her knees splayed, dropped, hips rolling.

Her nails slid down his neck.

His hands shifted up, back to the bare skin of her waist, to find the small of her back.

Her arms flew high. Her whole torso thrust outwards.

He gave her a shove.

She sprang away.

Landing lightly, she turned away and dropped her arms. Fingertips drifting up as they crossed across her chest. Trailing around her elbows, she closed her eyes. Her profile faced toward the ground.

The music stopped.

Silence followed. The fire crackled.

Solas’ heart hammered on his ribcage, pounding in his ears.

_Displeased?_ He felt the flush rise to his cheeks.

Then, Eirwen’s foot began to tap upon the dirt. Her arms spread, spread into a perfect circle.

“Yeah!” Sera’s voice. “Inquisitor!”

Eirwen wheeled. Lifted her hands high. Grinning, she began to clap.

She stepped and stamped.

Right. Clap. Left. Clap.

Her body rolled, she spun and stamped.

Clap. Clap.

The crowd answered her.

Clap. Clap.

The drums answered her.

Hop step left. Her hips rotated. Three steps right.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

Her hips swiveled. Feet crossed. Switched. Arms above her head. She rolled back.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

Her torso rotated. Upper body thrusting. Hips undulating. Her stomach quivered.

Eirwen spun.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

Her hands wheeled in tight semicircles above her head, feet prancing. Her steps light and delicate.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

Her head rose. Her eyes snapped his. Orange brows rose. That inviting smile lit her lips.

_Challenging,_ Solas thought. _Beautiful._

Solas held out his hand.

Eirwen grinned.

Two spinning steps whirled her back. One foot kicked out. The other stepped behind it. A five, six, seven, eight count she still timed to the rhythm of the drums. Feet moving so quickly she nearly slid across the dirt. _A variation of Josephine’s Antivan style._ He caught her hands, mirrored her steps. Spun her out, spun her back, and lifted her high. Her legs closed around his waist. He wheeled. She dipped. Hands free. He brought her back.

Around them, a cheer rose from the crowd.

Eirwen’s arms went about his neck, pressing their sticky foreheads together.

One hand moved up into her hair, he felt his own tired grin.

Their eyes stayed on each other.

Then, he heard pounding, the pounding of feet on dirt. Then, a crowd surrounded them. Pressed in. Hands pounding on his back. Cheering and laughing. How did he know how to dance like that? Voices asked. Where had he learned? Could he teach them? Their voices rose in a chorus, a myriad of sounds all melding together with his own beating heart.

A strange warmth filled him as he held her against him, glancing around at the faces in the crowd. The hunters and their vallaslin, listening to their laughs and jokes. The way they pushed each other. All trying to get a little closer, their hands clapping his back, clapping each other. Their grins and smiles. Young and exuberant, even a few elders among them. Others beyond them.

He glanced down.

It was all forgotten in the light of Eirwen’s smile.

Solas let her go, felt her slide back to the dirt.

Amid the crowd, she pulled him close. Her wet, damp body left his neck sticky, his clothing clinging to his chest. Her lips brushing against his ear. “You’re one of us now.”

Yes, Solas realized. For the first time since he’d woken in this strange world and met these strange fallen people, he was. His arms tightened around her, pulling her close. He buried his nose in her hair. A heavy sigh escaped him. He was.


End file.
